


Swept Under

by ShadowSheyla (My_Black_Crimson_Rose6)



Series: Women of Legends: The Warden-Queen, The Champion, and The Inquisitor [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Additional far off lands, Alistair is still getting used to being King, Different Types Of Magic, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff before the angst, I'm going to make it a bit of a game like that, Its not looking so bright on that front, Married Couple, Married Life, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Sexual Themes, She's getting a little desperate, Slow Build, Sparring, While his Cousland wife is wanting to have a child, Will try to include as many characters as possible, crude language, gotta make you FEEL for the character before I tear out your hearts, gotta warm up the gears before jumping right into plot, i just made myself sad, its medival politics so its a hella lot better than what we're used to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/ShadowSheyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know they'd expect an heir" and how very true those words were. It didn't matter that she had just finally returned to court, it didn't matter how many times they've tried. Its been a year since her hunt for Morrigan, her hunt for answers, and it was obvious that she had returned empty handed.</p><p>OR.</p><p>The fic where the taint is strong and those words Alistair had said were very much true. But that wasn't going to stop her--there had to be another way, another mean (excluding Blood Magic, that was a big no-no) to her end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memories of a time before

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first ever fanfiction for this fandom. I'm really excited for this actually. I don't plan on having too many new characters, though if you readers would life a brief cameo I'm more than willing to add you! It helps me in figuring out what to name these people. 
> 
> And I'm going to warn you now that I'm a pretty damn decent angst writer and this thing will have its fair share of it (a woman trying to have a child yet her body isn't allowing her... yeah, that makes for some pretty heart wrenching stories). I'm currently undecided on how it'll end so this will be a wild ride for the both of us!
> 
> This is currently set after the events of "Witch Hunt" and before Dragon Age 2. Well I guess it kinda overlaps, but anyways it's still set after the confrontation with Morrigan and around the time that Alistair goes off to meet Hawke.
> 
> The timeline I was going off of was all weird. 
> 
> Please leave any comments or questions, I will gladly get back to you :)

She jolted, heart beating seemingly in her throat. She swallowed thickly as she sat up in the bed. The hearth still popped with the glowering embers, casting the room into a warm glow. Vyal had gotten used to the light and sound of a fire these past few years. Even more so now that winter was nearing its completion, though it was mild. But it had always been mild here in Denerim compared to Highever—

Vyal sighed, pulling the covers from her body and stepping into the cool air. She doubts that she would fall back into a restful sleep after those memories of years ago. Two years in fact since the death of her family—since the end of the blight, since the beginning of this new life of hers. Two years and she was still haunted by the faces of her mother, father, nephew and sister-in-law. It’s a silly thing to think of in the dead of night, yet in her dreams she’s reminded of a happier time with them and when she wakes it’s simply a reminder.

She palmed the table closest to the bed, grabbing at the collection of long match sticks and pulling one from the others. She dragged it against the wood, pushing the air from her lungs through her teeth as it caught in a soft _whoosh_. She held the flame against the wick of the candle, fingers only slightly shaking, until it caught. With a flick of her wrist the match died out.

The man shifted under the sheets drawing her attention to her husband, “not that I’m not enjoying waking to the image of my _beautiful_ naked wife.” Even waking in the dead of night this man could pour compliments out of that mouth of his; she did really _enjoy_ that mouth.

She rolled her hazel eyes not just at his comment but the lazy drag his body stretched as he rolled onto his back and propped himself up on an elbow. “What are you doing awake?” he yawned, his hair wasn’t how it normally was when he woke up meaning that he had more than likely just settled into bed not too long before.

His worries warm her heart, just as much as it frustrates her. She has expressed both of these issues to him a number of times—he had only laughed, kissing her in the privacy of their room. He had grown confidant in these past years; a wonderful man, and a good King.

Not yet a great King; he was too young for that, still too new to the role of royalty and the troubles of court and political _stupidity_. Vyal was a warrior, a fighter, though she understood court and courtly matters she could never understand why all these nobles would much rather _talk_ and _bitch_ about things rather than actually doing something about it.

This coming from the woman who talked a guard into her cell that she shared with her now husband and made that very guard shed his clothes before killing him. Yes... yes, she knows how very different these matters are. And yes during the blight she did speak her way into the hearts of many to win favours, but that was _different_.

This was her standing around by her husband’s side while court was in session and itching to stuff a blade between the next nobleman’s eyes who dared take a disgraceful tone to her husband. Though the list of those nobles were very few in numbers, they still remained and Vyal wanted nothing more than to remove them from court and her husband’s life.

So in her own way, Vyal very much did worry about him too. Though she tried to hide it more and more with... the situation in which she wished were not looking to be true. They had both been through so much together; she wanted...

What she wanted wasn’t what was asked, and for the moment it was not what was important.

“Dreams,” she finally replied wrapping her arms around her ever persistent _flat_ stomach. This had been haunting her more and more since her hunt for, and later discovery and confrontation, of Morrigan. The witch was her best friend, they were close, and yet it was so very easy to watch the ties between them slip and shatter away.

Vyal had never had a sister and Morrigan had called her hers... for her to just slip away like that—it felt like losing her family all over again.

Alistair fluffed up his pillow behind him, leaning against it and the headboard. He was staring at her, just like how she was him. He had gotten very good at reading her and she’d like to blame the court for that as well. That, the late nights going over documents and other grueling tasks of similarity, and the bags under his eyes that no one but she noticed.

Maybe she’d keep him in bed for the whole day tomorrow—or at least for most of it. Tell anyone who comes knocking to stuff a hot iron up their arses and bugger off.

He raised a brow, “of the unpleasant variety,” he spoke finally. And of course he knew, he most likely knew what trouble her more than everything else. More than the reminder of times long ago.

Vyal huffed sitting back onto the bed; he jutted his chin out towards her in an action that would normally be used in promising of pleasantries later the evening when both of them were stuck in court where the nobles were ever watchful. It was amusing to think of all the different actions they had that spoke so many different meanings.

She understood how her mother just _knew_ when her father was annoyed just by a few seconds of looking at him. It all made sense now.

Vyal settled back under the covers, curling around her husband and tucking her face into the junction where neck and shoulder met. His skin was warm, pleasantly warm from his time under the covers. Her skin slid over his as she settled into her position, nails trailing over the fine blond hair that dusted his upper chest. You couldn’t even see it unless you had your face already pressed against it—more of a feeling than anything else.

His chest rose and fell, heart beating calmly under his skin. She was being lulled back into a state of peace; his fingers weaving into the strands of hair that fell passed her shoulders. She remembered now what had awoken her with a start, “I dreamt of my family.” His fingers stilled momentarily, “Mother loved my long hair,” she continued curling her fingers and trailing them up his chest. “I hated it; it got in the way during practice and she would insist that I wear it in these _elaborate braids_ ,” she couldn’t even remember the names that these hairstyles even were. “And the dresses!” she let out in a shrill, laughing at the memories.

“I remember when Mother and her ladies would waltz into my room on the mornings that some lordling and their son would come by in their attempt to _woo_ me. Mother would stand there scolding me for things that I haven’t even done yet—she knew, oh that woman knew that if I had my way I would waltz out to meet them in full plate armor with a sword strapped to my back and beat their son black and blue.” She could hear the rumble in his chest before his shoulders shook with the chuckles.

“She had me dressed in this Maker awful dress that hurt to even breathe—Orlais, she had told me. Like that made it any better,” she chuckled despite herself.  “After she and her maids had dressed me up in it and _fixed_ my hair and makeup she made this huge show of making me promise that I’d make an appearance and behave.”

She felt his lips press against the crown of her head. “I waited nearly five minutes after Mother had left before taking my knives out and _cutting_ the damn thing off me—“

“So that’s why you were so vocal about me **tearing** your wedding dress off—and you show absolutely no regard for those other dresses you have to wear to court!” his head thumbed against the headboard as he let out a deep rich laugh. She hadn’t heard him laugh like that for awhile; it felt nice.

“—I left the makeup on. That horrible Highever blue-green colour that was on all our crests and shields, it never matched well with anything else I’d wear. And I just remember thinking ‘I hate this’ and ‘this is stupid’ as I snipped and sheared my hair away. Until I could no longer have those braids weaved into my hair.” She pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth, “Mother was livid when she saw my hair. She didn’t care about the dress by then; she was embarrassed and Father was too. I could tell he was disappointed that I had decided that _now_ was the time to act out like such.”

He was shifting under her, dragging her back down so they could lay curled up in each other’s embrace. She could feel moisture gathering at the corner of her eyes; it was ridiculous in having this reaction. Completely and utterly idiotic; yet she couldn’t help but feel the tears gather.

She was always that failure child; too spirited for her own good, too much temper, seduced the knights and a few of the lordlings yet never settling down with them, she had acted more of a second son than a daughter—with becoming a warrior and itching for battle. And now here she was. She had settled down with a **King** , a Gray Warden and a Queen... yet she couldn’t even have a child.

Wasn’t that what she was meant to do? Breed?

“From then on Father didn’t actively send invitations to other Lords for marriage propositions and my warrior training was my sole priority. I keep my hair short when I know battle is upon us, or if I’m looking for one—“ she had grown her hair out since the Blight, since hunting for Morrigan. She had settled down for now, had remained by Alistair’s side from then on. “I felt bad, just a little.” That was a lie; she felt more than just a little bit of guilt for what had happen. For how much that had changed everything—for not being able to see her Mother truly proud of her until the night that everything had ended... when everything had truly begun.

She still wore the Highever blue-green colour on her eye lids; had worn it though out the blight, had worn the shade during her wedding... had even worn it the day before.

She blinked and the tears fell, splattering against his skin and rolling down his neck. The sound that escaped his lips—that rumbled up his neck—sounded pained. And they were moving again, moving until she was pressed against the bed with his entire naked body pressing against her’s. His lips pressing kisses all over her face; her eyes and cheeks were his focus as he avoided her lips and kissed the tears that escaped and that continued to escape.

She had thought that she had mourned for them already—during the months after the blight, though it was busy. She had thought that she had moved passed the nights where she’d wake from a dead sleep to the memories of what was. Her tears had turned into sobbing and she could feel herself falling apart—and the worst part of this was was that she _knew_ that this spell of emotion wasn’t because of what had happened at Highever.

She couldn’t conceive a child that both of them wanted—that they needed.

She _couldn’t_.

Not anymore, not with the taint. And even if they would, who was to say that she could give birth to it? Who would say that it could _live_ inside her?

She had went hunting after Morrigan for answers on how to carry a child with the taint—to birth a child with the taint... to even get _pregnant_. She had hunted and chased; followed after a woman that she had considered her sister. All she was left with was a warning and _nothing_ in the ways of answering her question.

She wanted a child—she wanted her _own_ child, she wanted to keep trying yet she feared that it’ll be more years of disappointment. Feared that maybe Alistair would tire of her—though she _knew_ that that was improbable, but it couldn’t help but tear at her in her weakest moments.

He was saying things against her face; sweet, tender terms of endearment. Yet she couldn’t stop her crying, it was soaking her cheeks and dripping into her hair. His hands pushing her hair back and away from her face where it was starting to stick with tears.

She wanted a family—she wanted to give Alistair one; a large one full of love and happiness. Yet here she was nearly two years later and still nothing—not even a miscarriage. She’s heard the mutterings the nobles at court would gossip about, she heard the servants too.

She wished she still had her mother to tell her that it’s normal that a woman body sometimes doesn’t conceive while it’s stressed. Vyal had been fighting darkspawn for far too long and it was only this year where she had finally settled back in Denerim and had hung her blade and armor up until a time where it would be needed again.

She knew this, but it wasn’t about knowing it—it was about actually **_knowing_** it (in the sense that it _stuck_ ).

He continued to shower her with words far too kind, with too many kisses to count—he didn’t stop until well after her eyes ran dry and her breath caught. He tucked an arm under her neck and settled half his weight on the bed before curling around her.

“You and I,” his voice caught and he was forced to clear his throat, “this bed. All tomorrow; no court, no servants ‘cept for those moments where they feed us. We need a break from ruling and saving the world, don’t you think?” he was trying to make things light, and she thanked him for that in the depths of her mind.

“That sounds perfect,” she whispered, throat raw and soar.


	2. The Promised Day in Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently only briefly edited. Have a test today so I'm gonna finish going over this after that. 
> 
> Oh, and lots and lots of fluff ahead. Married couples are sickening when they're all in love and sweet for each other.

She felt horrible; eyes sore and swollen and body heavy with exhaustion. And it wasn’t the pleasant kind, the one that came after too much sex or a day of battle. No this was completely different from those times, though she woke up in Alistair’s arms. “So are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you, or are we just going to ignore that until you break down again in the dead of night?”

She groaned burying her face further into the warmth of his chest, “I would rather ignore it, though I don’t think you’d let it go.”

He snorted, “You’re damn right!” He shifted moving his upper body away from her; she followed wrapping her arms and legs around him. “Vyal,” it was the tone that accompanied her name that stilled her.

She sighed unlocking her arms from around his torso and distanced herself from him, at least with her upper body. “I was thinking of children and how _frustrated_ I am about it all,” there she had said it. Not in the full capacity in which it bothered her, but he knew her better than anyone... he would know exactly what raced through her mind.

His features softened, he looked like the young man that she first met the eve of the battle of Ostegar—bothering the mage and groaning about not being able to join the battle. “You’ve only just returned to court,” was his first response. That was true, she had returned nearly a year ago and it was still too little time. “We’ve both been busy,” and this was another truth that she was aware of. He spends his days with advisors as they jointly attempted to bandage and heal Ferelden after the blight and the aftershock. It’s still been so little time since then, it was to be expected.

There were still nobles enraged at her; for Howe’s death, Loghain execution in court (though delivered by the King, it was still her who voice “you can do the honors.” Not the greatest thing to say even though she had destroyed his standing in court), crowning Alistair and in extension herself as well, and then there were the matters that happened in Amaranthine (she had saved the city and the farm land, yet it wasn’t _good enough_ for the Nobles. It didn’t help her case that she had to cut them down after their failed assassination attempt).

“I know that,” she replied brushing a hand through her sleep-messed hair, “I didn’t exactly say it was justified.” She keened, desperate for the proper words to express what she wished to express. “I want to provide you with children—or a child at least—and I _know_ you’ve heard the mutterings around court. If they’re not bitching about something, they’re gossiping about the lack of child.”

He could only hum in response. And it was for the best, she still had more to go off of.

That was one of the things that Vyal had taught herself growing up— **when you’re upset, get mad**. Anger was useful; tears served no purpose in her life. Tears got her coddles and pity; it got her dressed up in dresses and paraded around in front of would-be-suitors.

She sighed, “I get it, I do.” She brushed her bangs away from her eyes; she turned her attention back to the man at her side. He was laying there being all cute; all serious and pursed lips. “It’s just one of those things that no matter how many times you tell yourself it, it never sticks.” His eyes roamed over her face before moving further south; his brow arched and she rolled her eyes, pushing at his face gently. “We were having a serious conversation, you sap!” She removed her hand from his face and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

He rolled them over; body pressing against her, skin sliding as he settled flushed against and above her. His lips pressing against the tip of her nose, eyes fluttering shut as he shifted. He pressed gentle kisses against her cheek, against the corner of her eye before finally moving to seal their lips together. “We should really start trying again, don’t you think?” he waggled his brows at her. His lips pulled up into something soft and smug—playful even.

“If you start this now I’ll hold you to what you promised last night,” she warned. Vyal could already feel her body relaxing under his touch—the sensual burn that trailed from the underside of her breasts to her waist. She inhaled sharply through her nose; his hands trailed further, gripping behind her thighs and pulling her closer to him.

“Well it’s a good thing I told the servants not to bother us then,” another arch of his brow. When did he get this smug? Was it her; Maker, what has she done to him? He kissed her again like the one before, lips parting and nipping and pulling and... and nothing.

Her eyes fluttered open and was greeted with his hung head, eyes pinched shut and jaw slacked. She pressed kissed against his cheek, “You’ve missed me” she teased, trailing a finger down his spine enjoying the shiver and the raise of gooseflesh that erupted from his skin.

He groaned, adjusting their position until he slid into her body with a sigh. “It’s been too long,” he replied. And that would be the last stream of coherent conversation that wasn’t centered around the words: Alistair, fuck, Maker’s Breath, Vyal, more, and the breathless whispers of “I love you” repeated over and over.

\--

Alistair buried his face into the pillow, “how did you know?” she broke the silence. It had just occurred to her that she never did ask _how_ he knew. She had assumed that he did, had hoped that he didn’t, but knew that he would be the one to notice before anyone else.

“You’ve been fascinated with your stomach,” he answered stifling a yawn. They’ve been at it since this morning—making up for lost time. Vyal couldn’t argue with that, she had a healthy sexual appetite and Alistair was a handsome man (adorable too, but he’s trying to limit that now that the advisors are dumping all these new laws and conflicts on him). And there was just something about sex with a man that knows every arch, freckle, scar, and hair on her being. “That and the nobles are being real bitchy lately—it’s either my fault or it’s you waving your sword at someone. And I cornered a guard and had him listen into their gossiping,” he had said that the nobles were growing bolder since her return.

Something about the fear of Vyal pulling the King’s strings.

If she wanted to rule the kingdom herself she’d sit her ass on the throne—Alistair may even enjoy that on the days that he meets with commoners. Those days were long and stressful; lots of people, lots of toes being stepped on.

“Thank you.”

A loud puff of breath escaped him, “hey now! Isn’t it my job as your _loving husband_ to look after and take care of my darling wife? I mean, you kick ass better than I do—can’t deny that—so if that means I have to stare a few guards into keeping tabs on a couple of nobles.” She laughed, as he continued on with a growing grin breaking out over his lips, “or steal you away for the day and neglect my Kingly duties. It’s not like I hear you com—hey! Don’t roll your eyes at me!” He pinched her nose between his index and middle finger, shaking it.

She groaned pulling his limb away from her face, “darling. Sweetheart, your cuteness is rotting my teeth,” she cooed. He muttered something she couldn’t catch before rolling onto her again, crushing her with a wicked grin. His tongue peeking out between the clean white teeth, “Alistair no,” Vyal chuckled as he pinned her arms down. “Alistair no,” she laughed, squirming his tongue peeked out even more. She squealed, bucking and squirming as he licked a wet strip from chin to forehead.

“Raised by flying dogs, remember?” he replied with his own fit of laughter. Vyal flailed herself back and forth in an attempt to reach a pillow to wipe the saliva from her face.

There was a loud knock on the door.

The royal couple stilled, staring at the door with growing annoyance. It was safe to say whatever mood from before was long gone now. “Your Majesty,” it was one of the Royal Guardsmen. Of course it was one of them, only they would be the ones that any advisor would send—they were _favoured_ more so than the other guardsmen. They carried status and Alistair trusted each and every one of them (them being five men and one woman). “There’s been a situation,” the man continued.

Alistair muttered, “What don’t these people understand about ‘alone time with the Missus?” Even with all his complaining the man still rolled out of bed a shimmied into the pants he had worn the day before. Vyal almost couldn’t contain the snicker as her husband made with way to the door with this... _swagger_. An honest to the Maker ‘I just got laid’ bounce in his step.

She huffed, throwing the covers off her body and reaching for one of his shirts at the foot board of their too large bed (it was comfortable though). She pulled it over her head, until the cloth hung loose on her frame. If he was going to answer the door dressed crudely in just his britches, then fuck it she would make her own appearance. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser on _Alistair’s side_ of the bed (it was the closest to the window and he liked sleeping close to windows) where she stored all her small clothes.

She was pulling the thin fabric up her legs when Alistair pulled open the door, “what?” he snapped.

The guard startled; he’s seen his King in many states, but the man had never snapped at his guard before. Maybe he should have ignored the Advisors’ orders. “Your Advisors spoke of pressing matters, your Majesty. They say to meet them in the war ro—” he trailed off when the Queen appeared behind her husband.

She wrapped her arms around her husband’s torso, fingers spread and creeping south. “How important?” she inquired, never breaking eye contact with the guard. Not even when her fingers crept past his belly button and towards the unbuckled and undone waistline of his pants.

The guard flushed a colour similar to the King’s own cheeks; the other Royal Guards would never believe him when he tells them _this_. “T-they,” his voice caught, “they didn’t say.” He tried to look away, he really _really_ did.

This was the King and Queen—he can’t believe that!

“Then I’m sure they can wait awhile longer, no?” she pressed a kiss to her husband’s shoulder before retreating back into the room and out of sight of the guard. King Alistair’s gaze followed her though, “Darling, did you not promise that you’d... oh what was it?” the voice was further into the room now. “Ah yes. Didn’t you say you’d _worship my body with your **tongue**_?”

King Alistair’s face darkened and he cleared his throat. “I’ll meet them there later,” he muttered before slamming the door shut—he barred it shut.

“You little minx; you did that on purpose.”

Vyal shrugged, pulling her borrowed shirt up and over her head before dropping it to the floor. “Well you did promise,” she cooed, brow angling up sharply as she pinned him with a wicked grin. Years ago she wouldn’t have thought to do this; to pull something like that in front of a guard and to act so... natural about it all. It was _fun_.

He stalked towards her in a practised ease, “if there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s keeping my promises to you.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then to her ear, then down her jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment, maybe? I may write some smut before we get to the main plot line for this, but ya gotta get all the fluff in now :3


	3. The Stolen Husband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should really tell you about this character and her decisions, but I plan on having them come up as the story goes on... hmmm.
> 
> And yes, this chapter is a little dry. I'm trying to introduce information and its not... meshing right. It's a work in progress, so of course there'll be more fluff and plot related things, and of course Alistair ruling a kingdom. Because that stuff is important. 
> 
> Ughhh, another midterm tomorrow. Please shoot me?

They found a sick sense of pleasure with all this, Eamon more than anyone. Alistair’s thinking it has something to do with his childhood... but what is what he was stuck on. “Eamon,” he frowned crossing his arms over his chest, “this could’ve waited until tomorrow or, for Maker’s sake, you could’ve just had the guards take care of it.”

He loved this man, he did. It’s just... since he had stepped down from his place at Redcliffe and taken up position as an advisor to the King, he had been nothing but trouble to Alistair. In the best ways of course; just not right this second though.

The graying man pinched the bridge of his nose, “we can’t just deploy that amount of guards into the city without your approval, _my liege_.” Oh here it was, he was getting all technical and dropping the royal titles on him. “Without your consent and _order_ it may look poorly on the commander,” he continued.

And yes, the Commander of the guard would not want that. Of course not. He almost felt like snorting at the notion; was he giving off that aura of ‘piss off’? He hopes he was, really, he did. He was channelling Morrigan and all her bitchy ways and mixing it with a bit of his wife’s terrifying aura that would accompany her when one of the nobles got testy.

He rubbed a hand over his face and settled back in his seat. They had tricked him out of his wife’s loving embrace and his nice warm bed, for what? Some situation in the city that needed the guards to handle it—really, he didn’t get _why_ he had to give the stamp of approval for this. The only good thing about this whole ordeal was the fact that he hadn’t donned on his big showy armor. That damn thing was uncomfortable after sitting in it for three hours and just doing nothing.

It was just... big... and bulky... and bright.

Gold and White too; Vyal had gotten a kick out of it when she had seen him in it the first time (the humor was now replaced with suggestive whispers of “do you need me to help you out of that later?” in his ear). That was all fine, he got his dues after she returned in a near matching set only White and Gold (yes this was important) in colouring. She had found it in the Deep Roads during her time serving as the Warden Commander. The armor was called _Hirol’s Defence_ or something similar.

He wasn’t thrilled to hear her venturing off into the Deep Roads without him—it gave him a sour taste in his mouth just thinking that they were still in fact Wardens and that meant the Calling would still forever haunt them. It was easy to forget those simple things now that the Blight was finished and most of the Darkspawn were taken care of.

What mattered now was that their armor _matched_ ; it was _cute_. He had cooed at her the whole time until she had thrown her helmet at him, then the boot... and then its pair. _They were safe_ , at least for now.  All that they had to worry about was the idiots in masks in the neighbouring country and that damn court that would go through peaks of _loving him_ and _hating him_ for exiling Anora.

At least he let her live!

“You’re dealing with my wife if she comes storming in here then,” Alistair muttered as he got comfortable. The other advisors were starting to pull out stacks of papers—letters and laws, and petitions and _what-say-you_.

He longed for his bed.

\--

She flipped through a book, then a second. She had gotten re-dressed in his shirt, thrown a jacket over that and belted it up under her breasts. She had shimmied into a pair of trousers and stepped into a pair of boots. She had then gathered the clothing thrown about the room and deposited into the proper basket.

She sighed; it was official. The advisors had stolen her husband again and she’d most likely not see him again until late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Or... or she could join them in the war room and discuss the affairs of the country. She hasn’t done _that_ for a week now and she really _should_.

She took hold of the basket filled with their combined collection of worn clothing. She’ll make up her mind of what she’ll do after depositing this with the washers.

There were a few odd gazes that followed her as she passed through the halls with her basket of clothes, though even though there were stares no one had bothered her. She wasn’t even completely convinced that they understood that she was their Queen—but hush, that wasn’t the important part. She rather enjoyed mending into the busy population that made up the servants; made her feel like she was back in Highever and she still had to do a lot of her own things.

With that in mind, Vyal bounced down the stairs to the lower floors, hooked a left then a right, then finally another left further down the hall. She pushed open the door and the sound of gossip filled her ears. Something about Lord Treal and his nightly visits to the Pearl... well now, now that was some nice interesting gossip. Vyal wonders what his wife would say to such things.

And here she was thinking the Anora supporters would be _difficult_ in shifting their political views. It seems that luck was on her side after all.

“Your Majesty,” one of the women exclaimed, her hand clutching at the clothing covering her chest. “What can I help you with, your highness?” she quickly sputtered out. It was always _your Majesty_ this or _your royal highness_ that, or maybe even the title of _The Hero of Ferelden_ thrown in just to send her head in a spin. It was great, truly... only when she wanted to throw her titles about. In court was one of those times, with Nobles whom had their heads too far stuffed up their arses to know which way was up was another time that these titles proved useful, or... dealing with rogues or mercenaries... those groups liked to hear the title that came with the slaying of the Archdemon.

Vyal pulled a tight lipped smile on her face, “Thought that I’d save you ladies the trip,” she held up the basket. The woman closest to her quickly took it from her hands with eyes adverted. Ahh, yes this was the case in the Capital.

Back in Highever Vyal didn’t have servants following after her and waiting for her every move. They would come fetch her when her parents needed her, and she’d ask them to draw her bath, but that was mostly the extent in which she was catered too. Her parents where both adamant in teaching her to fend for herself—for the most part that is. She’d bring her clothes down for the washers to clean, much like how she was doing now, and at times Vyal had bothered Nan with supper preparations. Honestly, she had only wanted to steal a few cakes before Fergus got to them.

It was weird having all these people _waiting_ to serve her; it felt a little wrong. She didn’t like it. She knew that Alistair was still weirded out by it all, though happy that he doesn’t have to clean his own socks anymore though. Those things were **horrible**!

“My Lady,” now that’s a title she hadn’t heard of it awhile, “why aren’t you in your gowns?” she had to be the youngest of them. If the bright eyes and soft round face was anything to go by. She didn’t have that seasoned look in her face.

“Ferna!”

Vyal waved the woman off, “I’m not fond of dresses. As a warrior it makes fighting difficult, to say the least. And the bottom just gets in the way—really it’s a waste if I wear it without any _need_ ,” another tight lipped smile. Her audience stared at their hands, unsure of what to do or say about it. That’s the problem with Royalty... the awkward silence, the seemingly huge rift between the two. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. Farewell ladies.”

She hated that—Nan had been so much fun to bother and that dog of hers had loved it more than anything. Maybe she should really go hunt him down and give her trusty boy some loving (it’s not like her husband would be around to complain).

\--

It took awhile to find Dreal; he was barking at one of the guards guarding the main door. Vyal had to stop at stare at the pair—he really did like to bother others, its heartwarming to see that he was still at it all these years later. The dog barked and bark, spinning twice in a tight circle then stopping to wag his nub of a tail. He repeated this show three times before the guard broke character and reached into his pack to pull out a treat.

This was a normal then.

“Dreal!” Vyal called to her companion just as the war-dog inhaled the treat.

The guard startled (Vyal was on a roll today with all these people she was scaring, maybe she’d try the Advisors next) whipping around in her direction. “M-my Queen!” his cheeks flustered, “my apologies I didn’t think—”

Vyal held up a hand to stop him, “its fine. I blame the dog.” Dreal whined and Vyal crossed her arms at him, “it seems I’ve taught him too well. Didn’t I boy?”

Dreal barked happily.

“Do you want to go bother those Advisors?” she clapped her hands together and cooed. The dog barked again, spinning in a tight circle. “Alright, let’s go rescue my husband then!” she nodded to the guard before turning and heading back into the castle now with her trusty purebred hot at her heels.

His head would nudge against her hand as they’d walk and every time she’d twitch her fingers right in the spot right between his brows. “Now you behave, boy. We don’t want you getting kicked out by one of those old farts, now do we?” There was still a fair amount of corridors that they still needed to venture through to reach the war room, but it would be better if she told her companion _now_ that he needed to behave.

Dreal whined.

“I know boy, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking a lot of this story's timeline and I know for a fact that it'll meet up with DA2. But I'm also thinking of it reaching forward from that time too... so even after the story-line in Inquisition has been completed. That means a possibility of new romance tags.  
> Cullen/Inquisitor being the biggest...  
> But that may just stick to another story that I'm planning for this (as a not!sequel but maybe-kinda-sorta one...? More of a parallel if anything). Thoughts? 
> 
> And please feel free to leave comments, I love seeing that you guys are enjoying this!


	4. He'd Drink to That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Painting the fourth wall a little with some of this. Also, he does talk about getting drunk a lot with Oghren, so its only fitting. 
> 
> Will quickly look over this in about an hour or two. But until then, please be kind in spotting the mistakes. My computer is being a piece of shit and I can read it better up on this site (its how its formatted or something).

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to the Master of Coin explain the costs again of keeping this city running and rebuilding after the Blight. He has heard these complaints nearly every day for the past two years, and still there seems to be nothing getting done. At least with the treaties (he uses this word very loosely) with Orlais there was some excitement and he didn’t feel the need to drown himself in ale.

The cheap, dirt tasting shit that he had heard the dwarf drone on about in his adventures—yeah, he could really go for some of that shit. Maybe something stronger too if this old fart keeps going about his speech; Alistair can only stand about an hour of this before the rest just fails to even make it to his ears. It’s noise from then on.

He stared at the map on the table; he wished this meeting shifted to something that revolved around that map. At least then he could push the little metal pieces around (he has been corrected on number of occasions that they were in fact not toys, yet when Vyal was present he would whisper the correction to that correction until he knew them as less-fun toys); this was all just blah blah nonsense.

“Gentlemen,” and Alistair could’ve sworn that that was his wife’s voice just then. He must either be dead or dreaming for that to be the case. “It seems that you’ve stolen my husband from me,” and maybe this wasn’t a dream. If it was a dream she would still be naked and he would be too—and he wasn’t dead either, for much the same reasons. It all came down to her wearing too much clothing.

Life was just full of disappointments, wasn’t it? A shame, it would be a lot more fun if everyone would just run around naked. Would look less horrible on him when he’d lose his pants too, but sadly that couldn’t be the case. The crazies where the ones that got to have all the fun—and the drunks. Maybe in another life he would be a drunk and get to run around naked without a care in the world.

“The King has important matters to see to, he can’t possibly hideaway for the whole day!”

He felt her fingers cart through the hairs at the nape of his neck, “were you not just complaining about the lack of heir last week? Were you not the one that told me concern myself with producing said heir? How the hell am I to do that if you and your lot steal my husband away every chance you get? Or, do you suddenly not care about the line of succession?”

His Lady love was out for blood it seems; it’s what he loved about having her by his side during all of this. She had grown up in Nobility; she knew how to handle them. She could play the game yet refused to handle the passive-aggressive nature of it all. The Landsmeet had proven that much; that he was sure.

“I warned you,” Alistair grinned cheekily at his Advisors.

He could never understand how she did it. They would bow under her glares and crisp and cutting words... and they would stay down. They never had a snappy retort for her, nor a holier-than-thou attitude. Maybe it was because she was from noble birth, or maybe it was because she was that Hero of Ferelden. Maybe, she was just really scary.

Those all fit her—beautifully terrifying. Able to talk a man right out of their clothes with another present—ah yes, the good times.

He never understood why she saw him fit for the crown. These people seen fit to advise him didn’t (all but Eamon), he too had heard the mumbling in the nobility of their displeasure with the Anora situation. She had had a long time to rule beside his... brother and she had had years of peace to spin her webs and form bonds and packs with others. Alistair had come to the throne in the time of a Blight—in bloodshed and war and death.

And his rule will be primarily focused on helping his country survive though the taint that had bled into the soil and he still had that damn Orlais powerhouse at his borders. He glared at the maps laid out in front of him; there hasn’t been much movement on their end. It must be true then, the rumors that there was unrest within the Empress’ own court. About time is all Alistair could say about it.

The men remained silent under the Queen’s heavy stare, “what’s so important that needed to be taken care of right that second?” Alistair snapped out of his thoughts and stared up at his wife with a raised brow. “What was the situation that they needed you to solve?” she repeated.

“They need me send a bunch of guards out into town to deal with the unruly lot of mercenaries that have been terrorizing some of the common folk,” she had raised a brow at that, “I know. I told them that they shouldn’t have to run that by me either. As long as they don’t execute anyone, they have my say so to deal with organizations that aren’t playing nice with everyone else.”

Her finger crept up the back of his neck and massaged at knots plaguing him, “what of Orlais?” she inquired.

Eamon shook his head, “there’s been no change, my Queen. Still only rumors of unrest amongst her own court.”

“And there’s still the matter of coin and goods—”

Vyal silenced the man with a raise of her hand, “we’ve re-established trade routes, have we not?” The man nodded, “then they’re on their way as we speak. We can’t do anything else but wait for them to appear at out gates. Until then we need to build a new grainery and plain for spring.”

“But the coin—” he tried to stress again. Alistair never liked that man; the bald arse would throw him dirty looks. He also had some suspicions that he was stealing coin, but the paperwork that the man gave him never showed much of any suspicious activities. That’s what really tipped him off.

“Give me your ledger and I’ll go over what can or cannot be spared,” Alistair finally cut in with a stern tone. It was easier like this with his wife by his side; it was less of a gap between them verses him (and Eamon, at least he could trust that man to be by his side).

“My King,” the balding man started, “I’ve already handed you a copy of all—”

“Do I need to make this a command, Lord Harlen?” Alistair weaved his fingers together on the table in front of him. It felt... empowering to finally give these Advisors of his a what for; it’s been a long time coming. The balding man handed over the large leather bound book, it slammed heavily against the table. “Now if you so mind please leave so I can discuss matters with Eamon and my wife,” the look from Vyal had the Advisors fall short in their complaints.

Only when the door closed heavily behind the last Advisor did Vyal finally leave his immediate side to the chair to his left. “I think he’s stealing,” Alistair voiced eyeing Eamon just further down the table. The man was staring at the map in front of him of Thedas with a thoughtful expression.

“I’ve been thinking that as well,” the man replied fingers pinching at his beard. “It’s good to see you finally settling into your role as King.” It wasn’t that Alistair wasn’t settled into this role; he could handle anything military and the reading that comes with being in this position (let me tell you, there is A LOT of reading). It’s just dealing with people—nobility mostly—they could sniff the common folk in him, or something, and they looked down at him for it. That and the talking; he didn’t like giving speeches and he wasn’t fond of listening to his advisors go on one (he tunes them out about halfway through).

“Blame a woman’s scorn. It’s a great motivation to see them get something sent their way,” and by something Alistair wasn’t exactly sure. It all sounded better in his head. “I need new Advisors,” he added and both Vyal and Eamon nodded in agreement.

“You’re surrounded with people that Anora and Loghain trusted with these positions and they’ll hate you for the rest of lives, or until you take their positions and power away from them.” Vyal stood and walked behind his seat. “I have contacts that I trust; a woman who’s very familiar with what goes on within the city and in Thedas. I can send an invitation her way and see if she’d like to join our little council?” Her arms encircled his shoulders and she pressed a kiss high on his cheek.

“What kind of contact is this?” Eamon probed, though he was already certain in his answer.

“A spy,” she replied quickly, “a gift from Leliana. She claims it was a wedding gift—clever girl, I knew all that gossiping about your performance would pay off.” She pecked his cheek again as Eamon’s spit caught in his throat and he fell into a coughing fit.

“What is with you women?!” Alistair exclaimed, voice pitching in his embarrassment. “You’re not even traveling together!” Alistair stood from his seat and following her to the other side of the room where she crackled. He captured the laughing woman in a tight hold, lifting her feet off the ground, “is this how you expect to buy all your support? With our sex life?”

She grinned, “Well I bought us the room to ourselves, so I’m leaning towards the yes answer.” Alistair twirled them around so he could scope the room—she was right. It looks like Eamon had escaped sometime during their conversation. “It makes it easier to discuss important matters. I trust him, I do... it’s this room that I don’t.” He had placed her back on the ground, his arm still wrapped around her waist.

He kissed her nose, “do you want to take this someplace else or whisper all sneaky-sneaky?” he waggled his brows. She pushed his face away from hers, “our room it is!” he exclaiming picking her back up and hooking his arm under her knees. “Grab the ledger, we still need to go over that.”


	5. Tap and Dash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you may have guessed I played Vyal during Awakening. And in Awakening you get more specializations unlocked. So... with that said I should give away what specializations I gave her 'cause it does eventually come into play.
> 
> Main Weapons:: Sword and Shield  
> Secondary Weapon:: Two-Handed Sword (Summer Sword I believe is what I have right now)  
> Specializations:: Templar, Berserker, Reaver (had to buy the book for that one)
> 
> ...The big thing for me is befriending my companions as much as possible so I didn't do anything that would make them hostile (Morrigan was maxed, Alistair was maxed out too really early, Leliana too, I made an oops with Zevran and flirted with him once so I couldn't max him out cause I broke his heart, Oghren/Sten/Wynne were almost maxed out... they were around the high yellow/almost white area. Even Awakening saw this too. Anders was my darling, I had to protect him and give him his kitty).
> 
> EDIT:: So I'm also going to blend a lot of hardened Alistair with a slight un-hardened version of him. Like, mostly it'll be the hardened version of him but because of his 'common birth' he will be occasionally looked down upon. Mostly by people that are still supporting Anora or when they oppose him. These people do seem the sort to drag others through the mud because of their mixed birth.

It was easier talking like this; all curled up together with that damned ledger in one hand and her hand in the other. “What we need is a new Captain of the Guard, until you can seat a new General. Unfortunately you beheaded the last General and the only other big _players_ that are left either have no military background or they’re elsewhere and can’t take up a position in court.” Vyal pressed her cheek against his shoulder, hazel eyes staring down at the written numbers in the book Alistair was going over.

“You and Eamon are the only ones that seem _fit_ for that position—do you think there’d be much talk if I named you General?” he broke away from his readings to throw her a pleading look.

She huffed, “my titles are long enough. I fear for anyone who has to announce it. Can you picture it? _Now announcing Warden Commander Vyal Cousland, Queen and Hero of Ferelden_. Maker that is a mouthful. Now what would it sound like with **General** thrown in there?” She laughed at the thought.

“I get it, I get it—no to the naming you General thing. Though I suppose you could throw the Warden Commander weight around for a bit in those meetings, you’ll have more of a military leeway if you go about it from that position.” He patted the ankle of her leg that was thrown over his, wrapping his fingers around and squeezing ever the slightest.

“Your court thinks I have control over your every move as it is, sweetheart, if I start throwing titles around just for giggles it’ll only solidify their beliefs.” Alistair clicked his tongue against his teeth at her comment—it was true. And the fact that he had been so... hesitant at the beginning of his rule, and his hesitation still in doing _anything_ had his inner circle swirling with negativity. “I will accompany you more though, I can promise you that much,” she concluded.

Alistair sighed, that was good enough. It was always better with Vyal by his side, her hand resting either in his or on his knee under the table away from prying eyes. She’d tighten her grip if he lost focus or would... ah, what was the word his Advisors liked to call him? Ah yes, _too common folk_. He didn’t even understand what that meant—was he in _too much_ touch with his subjects, is that the problem?

And here he was hoping to really get into the risky topics—like the Circles and Templar order... and maybe, Maker forbid, the Chantry and wow! That was a power figure no one wanted to touch!

All that he has been doing for the last two years was help drive off the remaining Darkspawn from the surface (that was great, he liked that. Bring back the Darkspawn fighting and all that... just not the Blight. Blight bad). That was roughly the first six to eight months of his rule. The remainder was rebuilding, which was important but dull. Or at least in the case with his Advisors it was.

It was all about counting coins and re-establishing trade routes and this, that and the other thing. He needed a hobby—maybe he’d go bother the newer guards. Some of them looked a little young. Maybe even spar with some of them... he’s heard that that’s what Vyal did with her guards in Highever.

She said she formed a close bond with the men because of it.

The couple fell into a silence and Alistair began checking over the ledger again. He has spotted the theft already; it wasn’t difficult with what he remembered from the copies Lord Harlen had already given him. It was all about comparing the two, and even then some of the names listed in this book were odd. One of the towns that some of this money went to didn’t even exist. Alistair was well aware of that area of the map and if there was a town by that name in that location he’d _know_.

His Advisors must really think that he was slow.

He took offence to that!

“Sweetheart,” her fingers touched his cheek and he jolted halfway out of his skin. She held the offending limb up and waggled her fingers in an apologetic manner, “Alistair, love, you’re glowering.” He huffed pointing at the entry that caused this shift in mood. Vyal leaned in, reading the scrawled penmanship and furrowed her brows. “What kind of town is named Vidial Crest? There is no such town in that part of Ferelden.”

“Lord Harlen thinks I’m stupid, that’s what I’m getting from all of this,” he shut the ledger and tossed it onto the wooden sitting table in front of the couch that they’ve situated themselves in for the past three hours. The book landed with a loud slam and it felt good—maybe he should kick over the table next. No, he’d have to explain himself if he did that. He’s a _king_ and kings shouldn’t fall prey to childish frustrations.

He shifted his attention from the book to the woman half in his lap. She was staring at him; why was she looking at him like that? “You need to hit something.” She stated it so easily; of course she did. She spent a lot of her time just going out to the training grounds and hitting things. _Kept her sane_ , or something like that.

“I need to hit something,” he repeated in agreement.

She stood with a twirl, the bottom of his shirt twirled around her in her action. He loved seeing her in his clothes; his gut would flip and flop in both a pleasant and a sickening way that conflicted within him. Should he like it, should he not? He had settled with liking it; his loins had been the thing that tipped the scales in favour.

He only learned later that that ‘sick feeling’ was brought on from the lurch his heart would take. He still had problems coming to term that this was real and not just a dream that when he’d wake he’d be back in Ostegar and the Blight would still be upon them—or they’d be in the Wilds and he’d be the last Gray Warden.

He had nightmares of that before, the ones brought on by the taint were rarer now but those... those were common and terrifying. He’d wake disoriented and out of breath, hands searching and grasping for Vyal before he’d pull her close and curl around her (or in her embrace depending on the night).

He followed two steps behind her as she led him from their quarters and through the castle to the training yards where a few of the greener guards remained. She pulled one of the swords from the rack, testing the sharpness of the blade with her the tips of her fingers. She hummed and tossed it towards him, “dull,” was the only thing she called as he reached for the blade without even considering if it wasn’t.

He was lucky, catching it mostly by the handle, but if the blade was sharp he’d slice his finger and fingers bled easily. He would know after all those years he’d spent biting at his nail beds until Vyal had starting slapping his hands away from his face—it had gotten to the point that when they were still on their ‘adventure’ he’d bandage his fingers because of the damage he’d done.

“Now strip, your _Royal Highness_ ,” she grinned gesturing to the leathers and fur he covered his torso with. Alistair grinned, raising a brow as he pulled at the knots keeping the leather and fur trimmed coat together. He had to swift the sword from one hand to the other as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it towards one of the fence posts that cautioned off the area. He rolled up the sleeves of the tunic he wore, plain and white, and of better quality then the ones he used to wear.

It was still too cold shed his remaining layers even with the snow melted and the tail end of the cold was lifting just as the winter was. It was a mild year in the term of temperature, though the ground still lingered with the taint. It could be the reason for the oddly pleasant winter.

“There are better ways to get me out of my clothes, Love, and you know this.” He watched her roll up the sleeves of her borrowed shirt and turned to face the rack of weapons. A wicked thought crossed his mind and he _had to_ do it.

“You won’t lose a limb though they should leave bruises and possibly a broken bone if you connect hard enough, so I’ll try to contain myself.” She wasn’t even paying attention to him! Creeping just three steps closer he adjusted his hold on the weapon, before drawing his arm back and smacking it against her bottom in a stinging smack with the flat of his blade. She yelped, jumping and gripping at the offended part of her anatomy. “Alistair!” she shrieked in outrage grapping the closest weapon and swung.

Their blades clashed and he backed away as she twirled and swung the sword around with her. She had grabbed a greatsword in her haste; the massive blade swung in a sluggish arc right before she pulled it over her head and slammed the blade towards the ground. Alistair leapt to the side and tapped his blade against her calf, dancing away from another swing of the massive blade.

It was heavier then the two-handed sword that she typically fought with, that much was obvious. But her capability in battle made up for her discomfort with the blade—it didn’t have that sing in the swing that the sharpened blades tended to produce. These ones were loud and heavy _swooshes_ as he parried and dodged.

When their blades clashed it would send a sharp pain through his wrists and up his arms from the weight behind the swings—he longed for a shield, it would take the bitterness out of the connection. She had nearly broken a couple of his ribs with one of those swings of hers; when the blade didn’t catch the full blow. It would bruise, and it would bruise ugly—he almost wondered what her legs would look like after this. He was _trying_ to not tap too hard, but when a greatsword is being swung at his head it’s a little hard to gauge on just how hard he’s hitting.

He had danced too close, had gotten to comfortable with the tap and dash routine that he had been teasing her with. He had forgotten that she had too many tricks hidden in those sleeves of his, one of the many was the one she had caught him in. Her foot hooked behind his ankle and he went tumbling backwards.

He groaned from the dirt and grass covered ground, “I hate it when you do that.” It’s been a long time since the last time they had sparred. It had to have been sometimes before the Landsmeet during one of the nights at camp before they had _went to bed_. The blade that she was using moments ago fell to the ground with a heavy _thump_. “I was winning,” he stressed as she stood above him with each foot planted under either armpit, the toe of her boot nudging against his sweat moisten clothing.

“Should I apologize?” she replied smugly staring down at him with too much pride in her posture. Like the cat that caught that damned **_pigeon_**.

If she was wearing a dress right now he’d be able to see right up it—huh. “You should really wear more dresses,” he didn’t mean to voice that aloud, but it still rung true. He wondered if she was wearing small clothes, when he left their room she was still naked. So maybe, if she were wearing a dress he wouldn’t _see_ any undergarments, just... ahh, now that would be a fantastic sight.

“That’s—!” she cut herself off, “now that’s just _naughty_ ,” she replied in a near whisper shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the area. There were guards watching them with curious looks; they must have been watching them while they sparred.

“I learned it all from you, Love; you’re the one that corrupted me. Wicked, wicked thing you,” Alistair grinned cheekily.

Vyal huffed rolling her eyes, “say what you wish, darling husband, but you’re the one leering at my cunt.” She stepped away from him and gathered her fallen blade to return to the weapon rack. “We’re in public, you can continue your staring some other time,” she added turning to glare at the king still laying where he had fell.

Alistair groaned.

“Stop that,” she warned, lips threatening to pull up in the corners.

Alistair groaned again.


	6. Cheap Liquor but Fine Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair gets his drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've replayed both DA:O and Awakening (and finished the first act of DA2) before posting this. Wanted to make sure that what I wanted to write was capable. 
> 
> Before anyone asks: Yes, Alistair had been hardened in this. And before you point out a couple of chapters ago with the whole 'common touch' thing, yes. I'm keeping that because even though he shows capability to rule and his people love him, the nobility likes to sneer at anything done differently. So, when Alistair does something that some of the nobility disapprove of they blame his 'common background'.
> 
> Nobility is so petty :P
> 
> Anyways, I wrote an extra 1k to make up for dropping off the face of the earth to replay this damn series (its taking over my life I swear).  
> Also, as you might have noticed this will be part of a series. Mostly three parts but maybe if something doesn't fit in the plotline for one of the stories I may just stuff it into its own little story.
> 
> Again... have some fluffy 'filler' before I go about tearing your hearts out (along with mine). Because that's coming in a bit... don't you worry sweet things.
> 
> come visit me on tumblr if you wish:: [shadowsheyla](http://shadowsheyla.tumblr.com/)

It was a long month since removing and appointing a new master of coin. This one was a man that Eamon had high trust in, so Alistair was willing to give this man the position. And the man was competent—he was thrilled.  “The construction of the new grainery is currently on schedule, as well as the last repairs to damage brought on by the blight. I’ve been over seeing these tasks personally,” the man explained.

Alistair nodded; “very well,” he said standing from his seat and watching the rest of his advisors stand with him. “We’ll adjourn until the ‘morrow,” the men and one woman bowed their heads and slowly piled out. The sun was just beginning its descent towards the horizon, the sky taking a lovely orange hue—it’ll be a gorgeous sunset.

The door to the war room opened and fell shut again; Alistair glanced over his shoulder, turning away from the view and towards his wife. “I thought you were going to join me today?” he smirked taking in her devilish hair and the large tome in her hands. The book landed on the table heavily before she joined it. Hooking a foot through the arm of the chair she pulled it until it sat in front of her. She threw him a pointed look; from him then the chair, then back to him.

Alistair took a seat, fingers moving to pull the boot from her foot. It was becoming quite the task.“I’ve been sending letters to both the Circle and the Wardens,” she combed her hand through her hair again—and that was where the out of place hairs came from then. The boot went sailing over his shoulder and he drew his attention to the other one. “My brother also contacted me—it seems that he’s re-marrying, though he is still hesitant in his own match he so _lovingly_ states that ‘it seems that I’ll be the one to carry on the Cousland name, so I should really get started.’ That ass,” that gave him some pause.

Vyal hadn’t taken his family name—not completely. She went mostly by the name of Cousland-Theirin. “What?” he so elegantly questioned, face all scrunched up in confusion with one hand wrapped her calf while the other was in the process of pulling her boot from her foot.

She hummed, “you haven’t read the letters I’ve been sending of late, have you?” And that was news to him; he assumed that she writes to people but he had no idea to whom these letters were being sent to. Nor did he really care all that much—if she wanted to share then she would, and he trusted her with her affairs. If there’s one person who would remain loyal to him (and his rule) it would be her; just like he her. In his silence she carried on, “both Lelianna and my brother have commented on the fact that I’ve started _signing_ these letters with _Theirin_ rather than both.”

He pursed his lips; she signed her letters with initials. Something about making it slightly harder to track, understand and intercept. It was the fancy-smacy ones that had her full name and titles and he had only seen _that_ a handful of times. Mostly only when she handed in paper work pertaining to any _missions_ she went on.

Darkspawn this, blah blah, darkspawn that. Killed this darkspawn here with [insert person of interest’s name here]. Then more blah blah blah nonsense, before followed by some bad news (mostly injures and death), and maybe a mention on the damages that’s been dealt. Oh, and the best part was for last! The whole: “congratulations, Ferelden is now safe from Darkspawn” followed by her big long line of titles and names.

“Soo...?” her boot popped off and he chucked that one somewhere behind him. She was back to wearing pants—a shame. He rather enjoyed the days she’d doll herself up in those fancy dresses that she had tailored to her. It made for a humorous morning when her servants would crowd around her and tie up all those laces. There was a thing called a corsage that made her breasts look fantastic, and then there was the bodice itself and he felt like tearing that dress off anew.

She tucked some of her ruffled hair behind her ear and rolled her eyes, “so nothing other than I have no news on our little _problem_ and there’d be some talk that I’m going to be taking your name... finally.” The roll of her eyes told him that she was still thinking about it herself; he had been the one that mentioned the joining of their names for her so she didn’t feel like she was abandoning her family (again).

“Surely the Circle would be willing to send over more books,” he carved a path upwards snaking his fingers under her pant leg and massaged at the flesh.

This past month was the easiest it’s been for a long time—its funny how merely replacing one person can affect the whole group. And it might also help that Vyal’s ‘nobility lessons’ were finally starting to make sense. Though, he still could never understand why there were so many forks and spoons and what they all meant!

She groaned dragging her hand down over her face, “the last thing I want to see is more tiny print and things that don’t make any sense.  I have Dagna reading into it while she studies—if there’s someone who knows how to make sense out of all this it would be her.” And the fact that Vyal has the dwarven woman in her pocket after helping her _get_ to the circle was also a fair enough reason.

He gripped the back of her knees and surged upwards out of his seat, “I think we should go sneak out of the palace and just _get drunk_ ,” he grinned against her lips. It was a good day—she’s considering his last name, his advisors are no longer on his ass, Eamon was going to visit Connor in the Circle (and taking his damn wife with him), and although she hadn’t found a way to work around the whole ‘taint and children’ thing she was still in relatively high hopes—let’s keep it that way.

She studied him, “are _you_ suggesting that we ditch your guards and go to a tavern?” she threw him a mock scandalized look. “Dear Maker, this is a new development—or is this what you’ve been sneaking off to do? I thought I heard one of the servants mentioning seeing a man of your appearance sneaking out through one of their entrances.”

It was too much fun now—now that the nobles weren’t being constantly fed that he was _incompetent_ by one of his own advisors. Did he mention that? Because there were some very popular mutterings around court that dealt with the topic of his _common mother_ and her _common blood_ tainting the throne. Ha, the only taint that pumped through his veins was from the Darkspawn. Though the lack of an heir was starting to circle round again now that both he and Vyal have remained in the city for so long.

“There’s a possibility that that’s indeed what I’m suggesting,” pressing a kiss against the corner of her lips, he trailed down to press another on her chin. “Why, are you interested?” his teeth digging into his bottom lip in an attempt to still the pull upwards.

Vyal wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed the flesh of his cheek with a wet smack. “As long as I can take a great sword with me and glower all menacingly at anyone that gets to handsy with either you or me,” her tone held no room for argument and Alistair consented.

“As long as I introduce you as my _fantastically fabulous_ wife,” he grinned. He couldn’t help it not when his touch was teasing the back of her knees, fingers tap-tapping the flesh in a beat of his own heart. She sighed, agreeing to his terms and just like that he pulled her flush against him and pressed a hungry kiss to her lips. She stared, stunned, when he broke away with his signature goofy grin on his face. “I’ll go get your boots then.”

\--

The whole ‘ducking out of the palace’ wasn’t the hard part, no; the hard part would be getting back in while plastered. Vyal could only assume that Alistair would _very much_ like to keep his drunken adventures into the city away from the nobility. They were finally starting to become more _agreeable_ in their donations to the Crown and the rest of Ferelden.

While Alistair’s mix blood of royalty and _common folk_ had earned him much disagreement with the nobles still lingering around court, even when he proved knowledgeable of their ways, their history, and governing the land and its people (there was a lot of reading involved) his mixed past was a source of admiration and love from his people.

It startled her to see how well loved he was with the common folk.

He pressed his lips to her hair line as they strolled through the streets. He had dug out the shirt he had begged Wynne to knit many years ago; it still had the blood stain down in the bottom right and the stretched collar from one of the times that a Hurlock Alpha had gotten a little too close for comfort. Even his trousers had tears and blood stains on them—the knees were patched with a completely different colour of cloth and the stitching was a mess (clearly the work of Alistair himself). 

“I told them my name is Maric,” and Vyal stops mid-step to stare at him, “what? It’s the first thing I thought of and it’s a popular name!” he exclaimed.

Pulling her husband back to side Vyal raised a brow at the blond, “the first name you thought of was your father’s name?”

“It was either that or Loghain, and that is a scary—horrible thought, let's never think that again,” he led her through the streets with a heavy arm draped over her shoulders and with hers flicking with the edges of his shirt. The blade of her sword clicked against her belt with each step—it was a comfort, having both him and the blade so close.

Like meeting up with an old friend.

The sign of the tavern hung askew from one rusted chain while the chain dangled mournfully from the wooden sign. And the sound—shit. Vyal could hear the chatter from the other side of the door, and when Alistair pushed open the door the sound swept over her. She raised a brow at her significant other and he grinned back at her; the expression just screaming **Surprise!**

“Elissa,” she pointed to herself before turning the very same finger on him and stabbing it into his chest, “I’m going to go get myself something to drink and I’ll see you after I’ve downed at least two mugs of ale.” Alistair pouted, “Go find these companions of yours that you play cards with. Start a game, and maybe once I’m done I’ll go make myself comfortable on your lap. Yeah?”

That brought a twinkle in his eye as leaned forward to nip at her jaw, “try not to maim anyone.” She felt like snorting as she watching him head to the back of the tavern and into the crowd. She turned her attention from him and drew her attention to the bar. She elbowed her way past a man and ducked under a high tray and could only throw the frazzled bar wench a tight lipped smile when she went to apologize.

She fell heavily against the bar and blew a strand of hair from her face, and took the moment to eye her neighbours. They eyed her back; Vyal huffed rolling her eyes. His ale was dripping down his chin in rivers. A waste of the brew.

“What can I get you?” the gruff voice of the barkeep tore her disgruntled attention away from her neighbour.

“A mug of the strongest _shit_ you’ve got. I don’t care,” _just get me started down the path of drunken stupidity,_ it was left unsaid but the barkeep nodded and made off into the back to fill her request. Vyal sighed brushing her hair away from her face. The man set strong smelling liquor—strong enough to drown out the stench of the man to her left—and she slapped a few silvers down before taking a huge gulp.

She coughed, “ugh, **fuck**.” Taking the mug with her, she pulled away from the bar and pushed her way through the crowd growing close to the bar. She wasn’t sure where Alistair would be hiding, but the place was only so big so it’s not like he could’ve gotten _far_... right?

...

It was officially the busiest tavern she had _ever_ been in, and it took her nearly five minutes to detangle herself from one drunken group only to run into another. Vyal had started taking a sip of this horrible concoction of hers every time she had to utter the word “move.” There was no more room for pleasantries—not when there were drunken men and their roaming hands to worry about.

She was finally freed from the main horde (that’s what she’ll refer to it from now on) when she finally met up with the corner of the tavern that he had stolen away in. The group laughed, the mug in Alistair’s hand spilled over the side as he told his (and she’s assuming this) daring tale. One of the barmaids giggled along with his tales, clutching her tray against her chest—it struck Vyal as so extremely girlish; that this girl couldn’t be very old. Maybe seventeen at the eldest.

Vyal remembered being smitten—she still was. And it wasn’t like she could _fault_ the poor girl for falling for Alistair’s charismatic ways; he did have that _charm_ about him.

Vyal slunk over to the group gathered around the table, their card game paused as Alistair told his tale. “So she’s just standing there just _staring_ at the group, and you can just see the knobs turning in their head. And one of them just whispers in _loudest_ whisper I-I’ve ever heard,” he had slurred a few words in his tale. Vyal couldn’t be too sure it if was from their adventures or not.

She set her cup beside his cards; Alistair continued on with his story even when she combed her fingers through the hairs along the nape of his neck, and settled against him. He continued gesturing with the mug of ale in his left hand while his free arm wrapped around her legs.

“You gonna introduce us to ‘ur lady friend there, Maric?” one of the men drawled holding his mug up in Vyal’s direction.

Alistair grinned, “This is my wife!” His fingers tapped against the back of her knee, silently guiding her to her promised seat. Vyal unbuckled the strap keeping the blade strapped to her back and settled it against the table before settling into his lap.

“The one that fought during the battle of Denerim?”

Vyal raised a brow at that, “what stories have you been telling, love?”

Alistair’s chin dug into her shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, “good ones. I swear it.” Vyal could only wonder what these _good stories_ truly were.

She took her cup in hand and swallowed another portion of its contents. “The good ones are the ones that have fed your ‘discovering you have no pants on’ paranoia.” She could **feel** the pout that he was throwing at her, “I hardly think these people wish to hear of me yelling around the battlefield threatening to tear Darkspawn apart and beating them with their own severed arms.”

Alistair’s bark of laughter startled her—the look of shock and amassment from the bar wench and a few of the men gathered around did not though. “I forgot about that! How could forget about that?!” he exclaimed.

“Now you’re going to have to explain this,” one of the men spoke, hands covering his facedown cards. “You used a severed darkspawn arm... as a weapon...?” Vyal wouldn’t believe the person who said so either.

She shrugged, “he knocked me and my sword to the ground and I didn’t notice that it was an arm that I had grabbed in my haste until after I whacked him over the head with it a couple of times.” The other female gathered near the group blinked owlishly at her. “It’s not like I killed the damn thing with it!”

There was a moment of silence that fell over them before Fuzzy Beard in the corner opened his mouth and let out a deep rumble of a laugh through that big mouth of his.

“Do you have any other stories? Did you meet the Hero of Ferelden during your battle?” the young barmaid begged. A few of the men raised their mugs up in agreement and Alistair shifted in his seat under her.

“All good stories, love,” he repeated just for her ears.

Yes, it seems that they were all good tales.

\--

Vyal went to sit Alistair on the bed only to go stumbling into it after him, his arms wrapping around and wet lips pressing messy kisses against her face. “Holy **fuck** do I ever loovvveee youuuu,” he slurred, breaking off into a blissful chuckle. He grew still, before sitting up with her still _very much_ in his hold. “When didchh we get home?”

Vyal wormed her way under his arms and slid off the bed. Her brain swooshing around with the alcohol consumed during the evening. And even that wasn’t anywhere close to the amount Alistair had; that _royal bastard_ drank her ale! He palmed at her hair, “love—”

She shushed him, pulling at the buckles of his boots before finally pulling the boot from his foot with all her strength (all the drunken amount of it). The sock slipped from his foot as the boot popped off his foot and the momentum took her from her knees and onto her back. She blinked owlishly up at the dark ceiling, confused and vision swimming.

He howled out in laughter, “I’ll ‘elp,” he was already pulling off his shirt and unbuckling his trousers in one disordered movement. Vyal slowly returned to an upright position and returned to her task of removing his boots. The second one came off easier than the first and Alistair kicked off his pants—she glowered up at him when he did.

“Just get in bed and go to sleep,” she mumbled, man-handling him until he was under the covers. He groaned and complained, making grabbing hands towards her that she had grabbed and kissed each knuckle. “I’ll be in bed shortly,” she threw a glance towards the candles by the door. The wax was starting to drip onto the wood, “let me blow out the candles before they catch on anything.”

Alistair groaned, “if you must,” and with a dramatic flair that would put most court jesters to shame, he had rolled over and threw himself into the pillows.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So next chapter will be the last of the fluff i believe. I have to things that I'm going to hit with that chapter but the next question is... smut or no smut? I'm totally down for writing a full out sexytimes before i smack you with a plot.


	7. Hungover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get to start doing some jumps in the timeline after this. Very excited. Means that I can start breaking hearts and such.

 He woke to a horrid pounding in his skull and light hitting his face. He groaned turning away from light and snuggled into Vyal—he groaned again, peering out through bleary eyes in the direction of Vyal’s side of the bed. She wasn’t there and Alistair slowly propped himself up on his elbows to continue his search for her around their room.

Dreal poked his head up from the foot of the bed and panted happily at him, “where’s your Mum?” Alistair grumbled out. He could feel the dog’s rumble through the bed, “wait. No, don’t answer that. Just go back to sleep.”

The dog whined but settled back into his spot in the bed more than happy to continue his dreams of hunting rabbits or whatever it is that war dogs dreamed of.

Alistair slowly positioned himself onto his back, his stomach was not happy with him. Though it could be worse—he could have a horrible headache to go with the back flipping stomach of his. He’ll thank the Maker for this small courtesy.

When he finally sat up the world shifted and his stomached flipped. He froze immediately, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass over him before sliding out of bed. The door to the bedroom opened and Alistair glanced up from the floor and blinked the image into focus. “You’re lucky that there was nothing strenuous to attend to,” the woman tsked. Her shoes clicked against the floor as she walked further into the room.

Alistair’s forehead creased in a pained confusion—this couldn’t be his wife.

His wife didn’t wear dresses unless there was no other choice. She didn’t wear dresses unless Alistair pouted at her long enough or he promised to violently remove it from her person later. She didn’t wear dresses unless there was something important—or... or it was an open court date where the common folk would bring their cases to the throne.

“Did you just attend court?” He stood and the room spun. He fell back to a seated position and stared at the woman.

“I had the scribes write up some of the petitions that were brought up. I did what I could about some others so you shouldn’t have to worry about those ones.” She held a pile of papers tucked under an arm along with a leather bond book that contained the more _important_ cases—the ones that he would have to go over and plan in the War Room with the rest of his advisors. Normally it was about large scale projects; new buildings, repairs to other buildings, food situations and much more. Vyal set all of these things on the desk opposite to the couch and accompanying table. “I had tried to organize them on my way over on the most to least pressing issues that I’ve attended to so you can properly insure I’m not putting your good name in jeopardy.”

Alistair huffed, “I trust you to run Thedas in my stead if need be. Or have you forgotten that _you_ were the one that sat me on this throne in the first place.” He watched her cock a hip and roll her pretty hazel eyes at him.

“I didn’t _give_ you the crown. You proved that you’d make a good King, your heart is in the right place and you _know_ the people.” Her shoes clicked as she walked and Alistair wondered if she was wearing heels under those ruffles; he couldn’t see. “I also didn’t trust Anora and well, a Theirin needs to remain on the Throne. Your family has proven to be a bunch of strong individuals and you are just like your namesake, even if you do need a little push from time to time.”

Her fingers nudged his chin upwards so she could press a kiss to his lips. “And marrying me didn’t play any role in this whole affair?” he smiled shyly up at her. His stomach still too restless to shine as bright as it normally would.

“I would’ve married you as anything—a King, a Warden, a drunk, a Knight, or maybe even some baker living in some dark and muddy place.” Her cool hand pressed against his forehead and brushed his unmade hair off his forehead. “I love you for who you are not some title.”

He reached up and wrapped his hands around both of her arms, tugging her and her puffy dress into his lap and back into the bed. The world shifted as they tumbled back into the bed and nearly landing on the dog.

Dreal didn’t stir.

“So what did you tell them?”

Vyal huffed, breath coming out in puffs against his neck. “I said you fell ill—something you ate last night.” Well the lie wasn’t a complete one, he’d give her that. “Eamon is under the assumption that it might be from one of the many cheeses that you enjoy.”

Alistair groaned, “I got sick twice as a kid because of cheese and now that man will never live it down. And before you ask, love, one was because the cheese went bad and the other was because I ate too much.” The thought of cheese turned his stomach and he quickly removed the thought from his mind.

She chuckled, pushing herself back up into a seated position. “I should get you some bread and water, it’ll help.” Alistair groaned, reaching out to her when she left his embrace.

He pouted the whole time she was gone.

He must have dozed off again with his feet hovering just above the floor and his back bowed in an uncomfortable position ‘cause when she returned he was shaken awake and what looked to be the biggest mug in the castle was stuffed into his face. “Drink this and eat some bread,” she _suggested_ strongly.

Alistair grunted taking a long drink from the mug and handing it back to her, “what were you drinking last night?” Vyal puffed out a breath of laughter and shook her head. A few strands of red hair falling out of the hairstyle she had it pinned up in.

“I told you not to drink it but you didn’t listen,” she smirked handing him a torn off piece of the loaf. He leaned towards her a took the piece in mouth, plucking the bread straight from her fingers. “Do you think you can stand for a moment and not vomit? I need you to untie these laces in the back.”

He finally took a nice long look at the gown—a stunning red colour with golden trimming and embroidery. Even the laces had a nice golden colour to them. Vyal’s breasts pushed up and her hips were more pronounced even with the flare of the underskirt provided. “Are you wearing a corset?” Alistair stood and pulled the low collar of the dress out not even an inch to peek down the front of the gown.

Vyal cleared her throat and the man’s attention snapped up to her face, “yes I am and I would like to get out of it if you don’t mind.”

 


End file.
